Beating the Odds
by Bucken-Berry
Summary: Hunger Games AU. Beating the odds is no small thing; when it comes to the Hunger Games, beating the odds is just short of an impossibility. But someone has to be that one in a million.


A/N: Well, I know this is a bit unconventional, but I've been on a major Hunger Games kick lately and couldn't resist blending my two favorite things. So here we are.

In case the setting doesn't tip you off: yes, this will be an ANGSTY fic. There will also be spoilers for the entire trilogy; this will be more a fusion than a crossover, but events that have happened in the THG canon will be happening here, but in my own way. And other bits of worldbuilding that you only learn about in Mockingjay will also be included from the start.

Writing AUs drastically different from canon is always hard because it carries the risk of "losing" the characters' selves; without the things that define them in canon, it is hard to get the sense that they are still the same characters. But I am trying my hardest to make it seem like these are the same characters, just in another universe. If something seems off, please (constructively) let me know.

I think that is all for now! Enjoy, and please leave a review.

* * *

><p>George awoke, as usual, to the sound of a steam whistle, signaling that it was time for school-aged children to wake and get ready, and for adults to report to work.<p>

His four-year-old sister stirred next to him, with a sleepy, whiny sound; something between a groan and a sigh.

"Five more minutes. That's all, Jasmine," he told her, voice soft but firm. He rose from the bed and walked to the kitchen, where his mother and father were quickly eating their breakfast with his baby sister, Rose.

George gave a weak smile at them as he sat down. Two pieces of toast were sitting on his plate, which was a rare treat since he usually had only a half slice.

"Why-" he began, but then the obvious answer came to him once he remembered what time of year it was. Reaping Day was next week, and they wanted him as well-fed as they could manage, just in case.

If he _did _end up being Reaped, a week of slightly-more-adequate than usual meals wouldn't help much, but he didn't say that aloud. They could only stand so many reminders of their helplessness.

"Good morning," his mom greeted him, resting the almost-one year old on her shoulder.

"Morning," George replied, reaching for his small cup of coffee and downing it in one gulp. He turned to his toast and spread what little jam he had on the center of each piece, eating his way to the middle and then savoring the sweet bursts of flavor.

While he did enjoy the special meal, he also found himself wishing it was for a different reason. Setting his half-finished piece of toast on the bed, he began to calculate his odds. They weren't _against him_, but he wasn't sure they were in his favor, either.

He had never had to take out any Tesserae, though they had come close to needing it several times. The lower amount of entries left him with an edge- but given their District, it was a negligible one. The people of District Three weren't starving like in Twelve, but they weren't strong like Two, either. They were small, strength coming from their minds rather than their bodies with stunted growth. They had access to enough food to survive; never enough to thrive. All of them went to bed hungry every night.

But because most of them could afford to stay alive, very few felt the risk of taking any Tesserae was worth it, which put them all on a more even playing field for the Reaping. In some other Districts, there was a slant, but not here. His lack of Tesserae didn't do much for his odds one way or the other.

Still, he concluded, a small edge was better than none at all. Having his name written on five slips of paper was better than ten or as many as 36.

His father pulled him out of his thoughts. "What shift do you work today?"

"After school till eight," George said and sighed wistfully. He wished he was older, or even that he was once again just below the age threshold. Either one would be better than his current situation. Being younger would mean less work at the factory, while being older would mean better pay and most importantly, a permanent exemption from the Hunger Games.

"You're almost aged out, honey," his mother said reassuringly, picking up on his thoughts. "This is your second to last year. You're almost done."

"Yeah," he sighed again. "But my name's still in the bowl this year. And next. And that means…" He let the statement hang in the air and drank half his cup of coffee.

The meal continued in silence until his parents left for the factory, bringing Rose to a neighbor to babysit. George finished the last bite of his toast and returned to the room he shared with his younger sister to get the two of them ready for school. "Alright, little one, time to get ready for school. You've already overslept," he scolded her lightly.

"I'm sleepy," she whined.

"You'll wake up more when you get up," he promised her. "What if I carry you till you're awake?" That got her to smile slightly and she held her arms out for him. Gently returning her smile, he picked her up and brought her to their dresser. It was sturdy enough that she could sit on it, so he sat her down and selected an outfit from the top drawer. It was a red shirt and skirt, plain white underwear and socks, and white- faded to grey over the years- secondhand shoes that she had nearly outgrown.

Her face brightened when she saw the skirt. "It's so pretty!" she squealed, reaching out for it. Then she frowned at him. "Turn away 'till I tell you!"

"Okay, okay. Bossy," George teased, handing her her clothes. He walked over to his side of the room, teasing her in response to her indignant reply, and pulled his own clothes on; plain black shirt, pants, and shoes.

"Alright, we have to be out the door in five minutes. Do you have everything you need?" he asked her. She nodded. "Everything for school's in your backpack?" Another nod. "Okay. Then just brush your teeth and I'll get you your toast so you can eat on the way there."

"Okay," she said.

Ruffling her hair, he walked to the kitchen. With Reaping Day around the corner, his thoughts turned to what all older siblings and parents experienced; terror that one day, when she was older, she would be sent to the Games. He just hoped she could beat the odds. He didn't want to watch her struggling through the Arena.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, it wasn't his sister he needed to worry about.<p>

He stood in one of the Justice Building's rooms, numb and in shock. Hearing his name called should have filled him with terror- the very idea had for so long- but all he'd felt was disbelief. He'd looked around, as though someone else with his name would step forward, and finally one of his classmates had subtly pushed him forward, forcing him to make the stumbling journey up to the stage.

He was barely aware of the rest of the Reaping. Shaking hands with his female counterpart, Coyl, making his way back here… none of it had registered.

His parents were waiting for him to get his bearings, their faces full of sorrow. Baby Rose was sleeping in the sling his mother wore and Jasmine had latched herself to his side, terrified and confused. She was young enough not to realize the exact details of the Games, but she knew enough.

She knew that whoever went there never came back. It was always One, Two, and Four. Three's most recent Victor had won twelve years ago- before Jasmine had been even a thought.

"Don't go!" she wailed, hiding her face in his hip. "Tell them to grab someone else's name!" Giant sobs shook her body. "Find a-a bol-intear!"

Tears pricking in his eyes, he picked her up and whispered, voice turning raspy, "I'm sorry, Jasmine, but they can't. It has to be me. They chose me and no one volunteered then, so I have to go. Those are the rules."

"It's not fair!" she screamed, stomping her foot. "Someone else should go!"

Helplessly, he looked over at his parents. Fortunately they understood, and his father said, in his deep, gravelly voice, "Jasmine, darling, come here." She complied, and he held her in her arms, whispering something in her ear; hopefully explaining to her why she couldn't argue about this.

Meanwhile, his mother stepped closer, pulling him into a tight hug and murmuring soft, soothing words clearly meant for only him to hear.

Finally, reality set in; it all hit him at once. The realization that he was going to the Games, that he very likely had only a little more than a week to live before meeting some horrible end.

Tears began to flow down his face as well, and his mother rocked him, shushing him gently. He was smarter than them, she reminded him. He would outwit them. Strength wasn't the only thing that won the Hunger Games. He was so smart, but not in a way that would alienate potential sponsors; he was charming enough to make it work.

He didn't reply; he couldn't accept her words, but couldn't argue with them either. He simply didn't have the strength.

His father's words to him, once he had handed Jasmine over to his mother, were much the same. He wrapped one arm around George's shoulder and told stories of District Three's tributes who had won in his lifetime. One had electrocuted his opponents.

George swallowed. His scientific skill wasn't as good for electronics as it was for medicine. Before today, he'd hoped to become one of the District's few doctors. His understanding of electronics was only average for his District.

"But," his father argued when George finally found his words of protest, "that still means you know more than the other districts. You can do it. I- _we_- know you can."

He bit his lip, and barely managed to whisper, "for the next week, the Games are going to be the only thing anyone talks to me about. We have-" he checked the clock on the wall- "a half hour left. Can we talk about something else?"

So they did. He sat between his parents, Jasmine on his lap. His parents told him stories from their childhoods, the story of how they met, stories from when George was a baby that had him laughing in spite of himself.

As a Peacekeeper entered to warn them that their time was almost up, Jasmine pulled her necklace off, holding it in her chubby hand. George had bought it for her for her fifth birthday, after saving months of his salary at the factory; his pay was low and jewelry was expensive. But he'd done it.

"Bring this with you," she said, shoving it in his face. "As your- your token."

George smiled sadly at his sister and murmured, "of course. But I need you to promise me that you'll be good for mom and dad. I need you to get ready for school when they tell you. No more oversleeping, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered as he took the token.

George hugged her with one arm while he asked his mom, "Can I hold Rose, please?"

"Of course," she murmured, unstrapping Rose and handing her to him.

George held his baby sister, breathing slowly and trying to think of what to say. Eventually he whispered, "I love you, Rose. I'm sorry I won't get to…" His voice cracked; he couldn't even say the words aloud. "I know you'll be an amazing person. I'm sorry we got so little time together," he croaked, resting her head on his shoulder. "I love you so much. I was so excited when you were born."

The Peacekeeper reentered the room; they were out of time. Swallowing hard, he whispered, "I love you all so much," accepted one last hug from his family, and stood, walking out of the room on violently trembling legs.

The entire walk and then car ride to the train, he clutched his sister's necklace, constantly fighting off tears. It was only once Augusta, their escort, told the two tributes they would be undisturbed until dinner that George found his way to his room and allowed the tears to come.

He would never see his family again; he didn't stand a chance at winning. District Three tributes were always among the smallest, with only District Twelve and District Eleven's tributes being weaker. They weren't attractive like One, Two, and Four. They weren't ruthless killers, sexy, rugged survivors, or any other possible angle.

The only thing he had going for him was intelligence, and even that wouldn't be enough without sponsors, which he wouldn't get without something else to back that up; an aloof air, a hint of danger beneath the surface. But there was nothing he could use.

As far as he was concerned, this Game was already over before it had begun.

* * *

><p>Weighed down by exhaustion and dark thoughts, it was hard to find the drive to go to lunch when Augusta announced it was time. He wanted to stay in his compartment and hide under the covers, but he knew he couldn't. So he forced himself to chance into the plain t-shirt and pants provided for him and then make his way to the dining car.<p>

The mentors this year were Wiress- who had been a mentor since the first Games he could remember- and Rafael Barba.

Rafael wasn't like most of the people in Three; he both looked and acted like he belonged somewhere else. Instead of the ashen skin, dark eyes, and black hair they had, Rafael had pale skin, hazel eyes, and light brown hair. He was taller, stronger, and heavier, lacked their accent, and while intelligent, didn't have the level of electronic knowledge they had. Truthfully, it was like a citizen from Four or Seven had somehow made their way here, though of course that was impossible.

"Well," Rafael said as they sat down, "Let's not waste time. You know who we are, and we know your names- everything else, we'll figure out as time goes on. Though we can mentor regardless of gender, it's usually easier for women to stick together and men to stick together, so George, you're with me, and Coyl, you're with Wiress. Any objections?"

George and Coyl shook their heads silently, intimidated. Rafael's voice was gruff and impatient, as though they had already annoyed him just by being there. Which they might have. Coaching them for their near-certain deaths wasn't a job George would want, though then again, on the off chance that he made it out, he'd have no choice.

Rafael nodded and said, "good. Then we'll spend the next few days working on strategies."

Though Rafael hadn't forbidden them to talk, George and Coyl both had the same gut feeling that Rafael wanted exactly that. He was clearly in an angry mood and neither of them, especially George, wanted to get on his nerves. Wiress was friendly enough, but she also seemed lost in her own world.

The food was delicious, and there was far more of it than George was used to seeing in one place, yet the delicious soups, meats, and desserts may as well have been cardboard. It all stuck to his throat, and George had to wash it down with the sweet apple juice that accompanied the meal.

Already, despite the fact that the train was more luxurious than anything in their District, George was feeling cooped up, desperate for a change of scenery. They were among the farthest from the Capitol; humorously, they were closer to District Twelve than Districts One, Two, and Four. This meant that their Reapings were among the earliest, their train ride the longest. He had almost a full day of travel still ahead.

He felt his throat ache, eyes stinging, as tears threatened to fall again. He just wanted to go _home_ and pretend this had been a horrible nightmare. He'd never take anything for granted again if he could just wake up from this.

But of course, reality had no interest in changing for him. He was trapped here.

Finally, after finishing his dessert, Rafael curtly dismissed the two tributes, and they made their way back to their compartments. George crawled into bed and hid under his covers, feeling completely alone. Completely helpless.

* * *

><p>Dinner came before he realized an hour had passed, let alone several, and before he had began to feel even the slightest bit hungry. He returned to the dining car with no intention of eating.<p>

"We won't have much time tomorrow," Rafael said as George sat down, "so I want to work out your strategy for the Tribute Parade now. The Tribute Parade is your first chance to make an impression."

"I think that's up to my stylist," George said wryly.

"Your stylist can only do so much," Rafael retorted. "They make you look good. They give you advice. You have to do the rest."

Sighing, George said, "there's not much I _can _do. I'm average. I'm smart and that's really it."

"That's an issue for the interview. We have time to fix that," Rafael said, shaking his head. "At the Tribute Parade, all they'll see is you. You really only have two options; appear overly friendly, or appear ruthless and uncaring."

"Neither of those suit me," George said, trying desperately to imagine himself doing either and failing. "I'm friendly, but not _that _friendly. Not… not friendly enough for them to understand." The Capitol didn't understand subtle emotions; it all had to be at extremes. For them to believe his friendliness, he'd have to practically fall over himself.

"You've seen them on TV your whole life," Rafael argued. "You can at least fake it. That's your only option- now I can see you _can't_ fake being cold-hearted. Some can, but not you."

Unsure whether to be offended or not, George managed, "Thanks?"

"Nothing's an insult anymore," Rafael said bluntly. "Or a compliment. From here on out, everything I say is nothing more or less than an assessment. There's no time for compliments or insults; this is about survival."

George nodded. "Makes sense," he muttered. Running a hand through his hair, he said, "I'll try it, but I can't make any guarantees."

The rest of the train ride seemed to drag, and he wasn't sure whether he liked it better that way or not; he wanted to get this over with, and yet he also didn't want to get off the train and face the Games.

But, of course, it ended shortly after breakfast. He ate nervously, sticking to the blandest food available to try and stop the cramps in his stomach. He wanted to gain weight before the Games started, but he was having so much trouble enjoying food that he was doubting he could do it.

Three's stylists were rather hit and miss. Sometimes the outfits were intriguing pieces, mimicking machines with moving parts. Other times, when the stylists tried to emphasize a tribute's sexiness, they ended up with skimpy outfits that had little to do with electronics.

As the train pulled into the station and he was led off to a prep team, he continued worrying what kind of outfit his stylist would choose, heart pounding in his chest. It would either make or break his chance to get sponsors- at least early ones- and he wouldn't survive without them.

He sat patiently as his prep team injected something into his skin to stop him from growing facial hair, trimmed his hair into a neater cut, and made other minor alterations. The three talked so much and so fast that he didn't even register their names. It suited him well enough, because it allowed him a strange sort of quiet; it was like being in the factory, full of the whirling machines. There was plenty of background noise, but he could tune it out and think about important things.

Then his stylist entered the room: she was a tall woman he recognized from every Games he remembered watching. Her name was Antonia, and unfortunately for him, she was the far less talented of Three's stylists.

Just as he wondered if he should be giving her a chance, she pulled out… a lab coat. A lab coat and nothing else. George's heart sank and already, even though he was naked in front of her, he felt humiliation send a hot blush across his face. It felt like fire spreading over his cheeks.

"I don't… I don't suppose…" He bit his lip. Upsetting his stylist may well be suicide, but so was wearing this outfit. "I don't suppose I could wear my clothes under this?" he asked, compromising in his head. Now his concern sounded more like shyness and less like doubt in her abilities as a stylist.

"Oh, dearie!" Antonia gushed, handing the coat to him. "I know you in the Districts are shy, but if only you could see you like we do! All that intensity- the fighting, your bravery, your strength… you couldn't be more attractive to us! You should show off more!"

Utterly revolted, George was unable to reply. A bitter taste was suddenly filling his mouth as nausea rolled his stomach. He wanted to snap at her, to snap that this was his _life _and not some kind of sex game, but it would fall on deaf ears. The Capitol already saw the deaths of 23 teenagers as a game; why wouldn't some consider it an erotic one too? Especially the younger ones. They'd probably drool whenever the attractive tributes engaged in close combat.

He didn't have a choice, not anymore. Really, when he thought about it, maybe he never _had _had a choice. That was what Panem was. From his birth until now, the extent of his freedom had extended about as far as choosing what factory to work in after school.

Biting the inside of his cheek, unable to think about anything but what his family would think when they saw him, he took the lab coat from his stylist's hands and pulled it on. At least it was warmer than it looked, so that he wouldn't be shivering in the darkness. Antonia probably thought shivering would look too much like shaking in fear, costing him sponsors, and in turn costing her glory.

With that done, he picked at his lunch- he was never going to gain enough weight at this rate- and cheered himself up with the thought that the humiliation would be over in a few hours. After that, Antonia would only have his interview to dress him for, which would invariably be a simple, if interestingly colored and shaped, suit.

"We'd better go, dearie, the parade will start soon!" Antonio squealed, pulling on his shoulder. Mutely, George followed her to the first floor of the Remake Center, standing on the chariot behind the third horses in line.

"You look great," he said bitterly to Coyl. Her outfit was a flowing slate-grey dress that gave the appearance of sheet metal. Her black hair was in a plain but elegant ponytail, and her makeup was elaborate but not as horrible as the typical Capitol styles.

Wincing, Coyl said, "I'm sorry. Maybe… maybe someone else will look worse? So they aren't all turned off?"

"Some comfort," George grumbled and stared ahead, arms folded around his chest. The horses for District Two had just started to trot when he remembered that he was supposed to act overly friendly, though at the moment he felt like he could fake ruthlessness remarkably well; maybe even without faking at all. He certainly had an extensive list of brutal injuries he wanted to inflict on everyone who had had anything to do with bringing him here.

But all his aggression faded when their own chariot began to move, and instead terror made his heart drop, icy sensations gripping his stomach.

George swallowed hard, mouth completely dry. The Games were about to begin, and the odds were certainly not in his favor.


End file.
